Another Mistaken Experiment
by Arisprite
Summary: Sherlock makes an error which almost cost him his flat mate and landlady's lives, as well as his own. A modernized version of another of my stories. Rated T, no slash. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story's original form was written for Sherlock Holmes canon. However, it never got finished, and sat around on my hard drive for ages. Then I watched the new Sherlock TV show on BBC, and I fell in love all over again with Conan Doyle's beloved characters. I thought I'd try to reinterpret my own unfinished piece as a modern day Sherlock story. I will be posting the original story as well, both are nearly finished. If you read both, and compare, then you'll see that some things are nearly exactly the same, other's had to go in a different directed. It was fun working out the minute differences in Canon!Holmes, and BBC!Sherlock, and both Watsons as well. Hope you enjoy!

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

Silence in their flat meant one of three things. One: that Sherlock was out, in which case he hoped to find a text on his phone telling him at least where he had gone, though he knew that was probably wishful thinking. The second reason was that Sherlock had found something quiet to occupy himself with. John preferred this by far. The third, and most worrying was that Sherlock had had an accident, and was lying dead or unconscious from poison or something. It was very rare that Sherlock would simply be asleep.

So, when John woke to utter silence in their flat that morning, he felt an understandable dread flutter up at going downstairs to see what the matter was. He levered himself out of bed. A glance at the clock showed him it was a half hour earlier than was normal for him, and he groaned. He'd rather the gunshots than this unexplained quiet.

His phone showed no texts, so he grabbed his dressing gown, and shuffled down the stairs, yawning still.

"Sherlock?" He called as he came into the living room. His tall, dark haired flat mate wasn't in the living room, but in the kitchen, bent over the table. It was covered with tubes, and flasks, and Sherlock had his eye glued to a microscope right in the middle of all of it.

John ran a hand over his face, and shuffled over to the coffee pot, checking inside before pouring in case of stray body parts or small animals. He didn't see anything inside except cold coffee. Sherlock had obviously made this hours ago. He sighed, and poured some into a cup, which he heated in the microwave (again, he checked for any offensive parts, and had to remove that bowl of eyeballs).

A hunt through the rest of the kitchen found a couple of dead frozen mice, what looked horribly like a full set of toes, a snake skin, and a severed hand in a jar, as well as thankfully edible things, like sausage, eggs, and some almost stale bread. John fixed up the eggs and sausage, and began toasting the bread in a pan. Their toaster was currently lying in pieces under the couch when Sherlock had taken it apart, and then hidden it from Mrs. Hudson.

With the act of preparing breakfast, John felt more awake, and slightly more equal to the task of conversing with Sherlock Holmes at this hour of the day.

"Sherlock," There was no movement, save minute twists from his fingers on the scope adjustments. John moved a large binder from the table to a chair to make room for his plate, and took a seat.

"Sherlock," John raised his voice a bit, eliciting a distracted grunt. "D'you want any breakfast?"

No response.

"Is that a no then?"

Still nothing.

"So today I was thinking that I'd run down to the circus and join the acrobat troop, I think I could pretty well, and I've always loved Tarzan."

"Well if that's what you want to do, then who am I to stop you?" Sherlock said without turning his head. "Though I may have to mention your preoccupation with a man in a loin cloth to Sarah."

John dropped his fork, and spluttered. "Sherlock! You weren't...I wasn't...argh!" John rolled his eyes, and went back to eating his eggs.

"Are you planning on actually eating anything today?" John asked Sherlock a moment later around a bite of sausage.

"Maybe later," Sherlock said distantly. He was scribbling down a complicated looking formula.

John shook his head, and went back to his eating. He was munching on his almost burnt toast, when Sherlock's phone beeped.

Sherlock didn't move, his eye again against the microscope eyepiece. "John?" He said, and John rolled his eyes, and got up to rummage around inside Sherlock's coat pocket. The coat itself was hanging over the back of John's chair, so it wasn't that big of a difficulty. He flipped it open.

"Lestrade." He said, reading out the sender. Well, who else would it be?

"What'd he say?" Sherlock still hadn't moved, save to pour a new liquid into a bubbling beaker. John looked at the distance between the unknown chemical and his breakfast, then at the phone in his hand.

"He wants you at the yard." Sherlock groaned.

"That means it's probably paperwork or a signature from that last case, which he could get just as easily by coming here." Sherlock leaned back for the first time that morning, and sighed. "Why he feels he has to call me at the most inconvenient times I'll never know." Sherlock stood, fiddling with his test tubes one last time, before grabbing his coat and scarf from off the chair and the floor respectively.

"Sherlock, he does have a job other than working with you and your cases. He's not at your beck and call."

"Well, I'm not at his either." Sherlock stated, tying his scarf around his throat.

John swallowed a gulp of water –they'd run out of orange juice ages ago—and turned around in his chair.

"Do you want me to come?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Finish your breakfast, write in your blog. I won't be longer than an hour." He opened the door of their flat, and left in a swirl of wool coat that was so dramatic it could almost have been planned.

Lestrade had been just as dull and tedious as Sherlock had anticipated, while taking twice the amount of time he'd expected. He trudged up the steps to 221B Baker Street, and opened the door, shaking the snow off his shoes on his way inside. It was the coldest he'd felt yet this year, and the dirty snow on the ground didn't help his mood. His concentration on those chemicals had been interrupted first by John, and then by Lestrade's boring paperwork. He doubted he'd be able to get back into that state of absorption now.

He thumped up the stairs, and paused on the landing. Silence. The flat was absolutely still. His mind whizzed through observations and deductions. Mrs. Hudson would normally be watching her daytime soaps, but there was nothing from her downstairs. John might have been watching with her, but he'd planned to write today, the scribble on his palm confirmed it, so he should have been hearing a mix of keys typing, and the light radio John played while he blogged. Yet the flat was also silent. Neither had left because his were the only footprints on the rug in front of the front door, in or out. Something was wrong.

This conclusion came after thirty seconds and before the minute was up, Sherlock had the door to their flat open, and had stormed into the room.

"John—" He came to a stop.

John was seated in his chair, laptop on his lap, and head lolled backwards against the headrest. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and he didn't stir when Sherlock called his name again. It seemed like he had just dozed off while writing.

Sherlock rubbed his forehead against a slight headache. Something was wrong.

He walked forwards, glancing about the room. Everything looked normal. There were their usual mess, and clutter, dirty dishes in the sink, and chemicals on the table. Just as he'd left it…

Wait.

Several pieces of information filtered into his awareness. One: John's breathing pattern was much too slow for him to be in normal sleep. Two: Sherlock himself had a slight, but growing headache. Three: There was a faint chemical smell in the air, and it was getting noticeably stronger.

Like a flash in his head, he saw himself leaving that morning, and like slow motion his finger switching off the Bunsen burner on the table, just as it was going to go into the off position, his finger slipped slightly. It was just enough to leave a small stream of gas still flowing, and to leave the beaker of volatile chemicals that he was experimenting with that morning. His mind processed the chemicals he had added, and realized that when simmered, it was a dangerous mix.

Within a second, his mind reached the conclusion that John, Mrs. Hudson, and himself were all in deadly danger.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

A/N: A cliff hanger! Read and review please! And be sure to read the original canon version!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here is the next part of this :) Hope it doesn't disappoint!

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Sherlock jerked into action leaping over the coffee table and gripping John's shoulders. He shook him, and was rewarded by a weak groan. When he checked his pulse, it was slow, too slow.

"John, you need to wake up. John? Come on, John!" He was babbling, but there was no further response from his friend. Sherlock swore and stood, grabbing John's arms under the armpits, and pulling up, until he was hanging over Sherlock's thin shoulder. "Stay with me, John."

Sherlock lugged John's limp body down the stairs, staggering a little. John may have been shorter than Sherlock, but he was no lightweight. He was still solid with compact muscle from his days in the army. Also, Sherlock wasn't sure if it was just the strain, or if the haziness behind his eyes was a result of the chemical, but regardless, it was getting harder to walk in a straight line when the world wouldn't stop rotating.

Finally, _finally_, they reached the open, biting air of Baker Street. Sherlock took a deep, grateful breath, and set John down onto the sidewalk. There were people staring, gathering around and Sherlock located with joy one of the homeless men that frequented the street. The man had done many small favors for Sherlock, and received what was probably most of his regular income from Sherlock's hands.

Billy MacPherson, for that was his name, started over towards them. Concern knotted his brow, and Sherlock felt a rush of gladness. He could trust this man to look after John, for the knowledge that Mrs. Hudson was still inside was pressing to the front of his muddled brain.

Sherlock called out to another person who happened to catch his eye.

"You there! Call an ambulance, and the police. 221B Baker Street!" Then he turned, and leaving Billy standing guard over John, flew back inside.

The smell was stronger back inside, even downstairs, and Sherlock felt his headache sharpen almost immediately.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He coughed, running into Mrs. Hudson's private flat. No sign of her in the living area, or the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled, running into the back rooms. He found her on her bed, covered in a knitted afghan. Her pulse was slow, and she didn't react to shaking or yelling, so he lifted her, carrying her in the same manner that he'd carried John.

A few steps from the bed, however, showed that this would be much more difficult. His eyesight was swirling in and out, and he could feel himself heading quickly towards unconsciousness. He shook his head savagely, and leaned on a wall. He concentrated on just one more step, just one.

He made it. The sun was blinding on the snow, causing him to squint when he exited the house. He stumbled, and hands grabbed him and Mrs. Hudson on his shoulders, lowering them to the ground. Sherlock saw more than heard people talking to him, and lights were flashing somewhere to the left. Then the world sort of blurred around him, and he felt cold slush against his cheek.

What seemed like a moment later, Sherlock saw Lestrade's face inches from his own. He was mouthing something, and there was a line between his eyes. This little furrow seemed to be massively important, and took up all his concentration, and what with the rushing in his ears, it was a while before Lestrade's words made sense.

"—erlock, what happened?" Sherlock blinked.

"L'strade?" He said, his voice was so hoarse he barely made a sound. He coughed. "What are you doing here?" Then it clicked. That furrow in his brow was worry. Lestrade was _concerned_. He felt oddly pleased with himself. Lestrade himself refused to confirm Sherlock's theory.

"Sherlock, you've got to tell us what happened." Lestrade was leaning over him and Sherlock just the realized that he was lying in the snow, though someone had thought to put a coat or something under his head. Thelights that were flashing were from an ambulance just yards away. Paramedics were busy lifting someone into the open back. John.

John was on a stretcher, covered in an orange shock blanket, and being administered oxygen. The lack of urgency in the medic's movements told Sherlock that John was going to be all right, but that knowledge wasn't enough to stop him from sitting forwards, and trying to scramble over to him.

Lestrade held him back, and then up, as the movement cause the world to spin again. He leaned on the arm Lestrade had braced across his chest, never taking his eyes off the steady movements of John's breaths.

"Sherlock, he'll be alright. Mrs. Hudson too. Don't worry." Sherlock nodded. He _knew_, he just…

"It's my fault." He said quietly. _Stupid stupid stupid._ "I left the burner on under some chemicals when I came to see you. I didn't realize…" He shuddered. It so nearly could have been fatal to all of them. Lestrade seemed to think his shudder had been because of the cold, for he turned to yell at some young paramedic.

"Can we get a shock blanket and some oxygen over here?" He sounded exasperated. Sherlock wanted to tell him, don't bother, but someone draped the orange blanket over his shoulder, and then there was a man in his face, asking him questions, and trying to fix an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose… it was too much.

He shouted something; it may have been_ shut up!_ and pushed and shoved until he was backed up against a wheeled stretcher. People were still around him, telling him to calm down, and he couldn't breathe and_ where_ was John?

Lestrade moved past his surprise at Sherlock's so-very-human reaction, and let his training take over. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, and forced his head down between his knees, keeping up a stream of that generic calming chatter.

"All right, Sherlock. It's all right. Everything is fine." He continued on, and Sherlock's erratic breaths slowed. Lestrade turned towards the young EMT crouching awkwardly behind him.

"Get him some oxygen, would you?"

The young woman fixed a mask over Sherlock's face without any protests from the detective himself, which Lestrade considered a huge accomplishment. He still had his hands on Sherlock's shoulder and head, and he kept up a steady pressure.

Sherlock gulped a breath of the tinny canned oxygen, and swallowed. Panic attack. Sudden overpowering fear, triggered by the present anxiety of a near death experience, adrenaline, endorphins from the bodily strain, the inability to breath—no, that was a result of the attack…his mind continued on, and a small detached part of him looked on with vague fascination. He'd never had a panic attack before…

A larger part of him, surprisingly large, was overwhelmingly worried for his housemates. That was strange as well. _Where_ was John?

He could feel the continued weight of Lestrade's hands, steadying him. He was still shaking…odd.

Sherlock uncurled a bit from his slumped position, and cleared his throat. Lestrade took the hint, and the hands fell away. Sherlock went to remove the oxygen mask, but Lestrade prevented him.

"Leave it; you're still not getting enough air." Sherlock was annoyed. He wanted to ask Lestrade if he'd somehow gotten a medical degree. He wanted to sweep off, and be his usual distaining cold self, not the still gasping, shivering lump that was earning concern from Lestrade. But most of all, he wanted to get in that damn ambulance and make sure that John was as fine as everyone told him he was.

A paramedic touched his shoulder, and Lestrade backed off to give her more room.

"Sir, we need to get you to the hospital, and get you checked out. If you're feeling well enough we can skip the stretcher for the ride over?"

Sherlock nodded firmly, and stood up, using the stretcher behind him as a lever to pull him up. His head didn't take to kindly to that, and his vision swam.

Lestrade saw him sway, and gripped his arm.

"Holmes, just lay down on the bloody stretcher!" He exclaimed. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes or made some clever remark, but he was too busy attempting to keep down the meager contents of his stomach. However, he didn't allow them to push him down onto a stretcher, for that would have meant riding in a different vehicle to the hospital, and he couldn't have _that_.

He staggered up to the ambulance, and clamored inside, his usual grace severely lacking at the moment. An EMT sat him down on a side seat, and Lestrade slide in next to him. He was squeezed uncomfortably close; they were packed like sardines in the small back.

Sherlock could just see the oxygen mask over John's face, and the tufts of light brown hair that stuck up above the pillow. It was the comforting beeps of his heart monitor that finally convinced him that John was actually alive, and that everyone wasn't just lying to him, to make him feel better.

His head was feeling much clearer by now, with the oxygen clearing out the last of the effects of the chemical. Sherlock hated to think of its effects of the others. He'd only been in the room for a short time compared to John and Mrs. Hudson. If the effects were permanent…

His chest constricted with guilt. This was his fault, his careless mistake. He raised his hands to his head, gripping his curls. If he hadn't been so distracted this morning, if he'd only noticed!

John was just feet from him, and he felt an irrational urge to reach out to touch him, to make sure he really was all right. Before the counterargument had formed in his mind –you can see his monitor, hear him breathing—he'd caught hold of John's wrist. He felt Lestrade's eyes on him, but he didn't let go the whole ride to the hospital.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

A/N: Thank you for reading and supporting this! All the reviews and alerts have been marvelous! :) Be sure to check out the original canon version of this as well. You may have noticed, but at this point is where Sherlock really diverges from Canon!Holmes. He surprised me, and dragged me off in a totally new direction, much different from Holmes' experience in the original version of this. Let me know your thoughts, and thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Finally this is up! The canon version of this was giving me some trouble, and I didn't want to post one without the other. Anyway, read on!

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

John woke slowly, blinking upwards at the unfamiliar ceiling. The sight confused him. Where was he? What happened? Slowly sounds and smells filtered into his awareness. Beeps, quick footsteps, and the antiseptic. He was in a hospital.

He thought back to what he could remember, but could come up with no reason for him to be laying here. He'd been…writing?

The bright lights of the room sharpened a lingering headache, and he closed them, while assessing his condition. He could feel no injuries, or unexplained pain, save a strong headache. He was wearing an oxygen canola, for what reason, he couldn't tell. His head felt cloudy, thoughts swirling in a random pattern. Had he been drugged?

With his head slowly clearing, the mystery of his surroundings became more pressing. John dragged his eyes open again, with the intent to find out what had happened. He turned his head, and saw only a hanging privacy curtain. Turning his head the other direction, John felt the corners of his mouth lift in a fond smile.

Sherlock was slumped in a chair, in one of those oddly graceful, yet contorted positions that John is always sure will leave him unable to move the morning after. He was slumped forwards, with his legs drawn up in the chair, and had one of his hands draped on the corner of John's bed. He was in a hospital robe and his dressing gown, and had a tag on wrist, the date of admission matching his own. It would be nice to know how many days past that had been, but without knowing today's date, that was impossible. He could call the nurse but he was loath to wake Sherlock, for his pale, shadowed face showed that he obviously needed the sleep.

John yawned, and stretched a bit, trying to see how stiff he'd become. It would give him a clue as to how long he'd been here. Not too stiff then, he thought as he flexed his feet. What _had_ happened to them?

Sherlock stirred then. John stilled. He really should sleep some more, though he couldn't deny that the need for answers was becoming more pressing.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, he shifted uneasily. John reached out a hand, intending to wake him, when he jerked awake, startling them both.

"Jeez Sherlock, you scared the hell out of me!" John said in a rough voice.

Sherlock leaned forwards, ignoring his outburst.

"Are you all right?" He asked John urgently. John frowned.

"I'm in hospital bed, aren't I? I was sort of hoping you could answer that."

Sherlock looked terrible, John realized. His face was pale, drawn, and he had pain lines around his eyes. Looks like he had a headache as well. There was some emotion in his eyes that he was trying hard to cover. Worry, yes, he'd seen that before. But was that…guilt?

"Sherlock, what happened?" Sherlock looked at the ground, and his diagnosis of guilt was strengthened. "What's the matter?"

"What do you remember?"

John thought back through the fuzzy jumble of his memory.

"Nothing really, I was…writing. That's all I can remember. Just writing in the flat." Sherlock ran his hands along his face, then up into his hair, and John felt a surge of fear at his quiet.

He tried to sit up, but then the room spun. Ah, dizzy spells as well, to be added to the symptom list. Wonderful.

Sherlock jumped forwards when he swayed, and caught him before he toppled over the edge of the bed.

"Careful!" Sherlock lowered him back against his pillows, and then sat back down—on none too steady legs of his own, John noticed.

"Sherlock, tell me what happened." John demanded quietly. Sherlock sighed, and clasped his hands together.

"I went to see Lestrade this morning, you remember?" John nodded. "When I got back, I noticed immediately that the flat was much too quiet. You _had_ been writing, sitting in your chair, and nearly unresponsive. I got you, and Mrs. Hudson out, then collapsed myself. You're both fine. Mrs. Hudson is in the next room over, still sleeping." Sherlock's voice was clinical, and cool, but John grew more and more worried as the story went on.

"What was it?"

Sherlock went very still.

"I left the burner on under those chemicals in the kitchen. I was distracted, and my finger…slipped. I could have killed you both with my… _stupid_ mistake." The last of this was said in a choked whisper, and Sherlock pressed his hand against his mouth.

John's eyebrows rose, and then lowered. Sherlock had been all alone then, to remember it all over and over, guilt getting worse and worse. John put a hand out.

"Sherlock, It was an—"

"Don't say it was an accident!" Sherlock burst out, jerking his hand away from John's. John watched with concern as he overbalanced, and had to catch himself against the edge of the bed. He stayed there with his head hanging for a moment.

John sat up again, slowly this time, and laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He flinched, but didn't pull away, and so John left his hand there. He knew he had to make Sherlock realize that this wasn't his fault, or the guilt would get packed away with all the other buried feelings and past issues that haunted Sherlock.

"Sherlock, look. We're all fine. We'll all be okay." Sherlock was shaking his head.

"You couldn't remember, and Mrs. Hudson hasn't woken up yet..."

John shook his own head in turn.

"I did remember, Sherlock. All I was doing was writing. It would have felt like falling asleep, and no one remembers that." John looked at the top of Sherlock's head; he had yet to look up. "And Mrs. Hudson will wake up, she's older than us, it's bound to take her longer to shake off the effects. You know all this Sherlock." John was appealing to Sherlock's logical brain, not to the emotions that were currently making his hands tremble on the bedclothes.

John could tell the moment his words penetrated, for Sherlock's tense shoulders slumped, and he sighed. Looking up at John, he gave him an unreadable look.

"It is my fault." He stated again, but there was none of the anguish of earlier. John twisted his mouth to the side.

"Well, just promise to not do it again, and we'll call it even." John's tone of voice was considerably lighter, but it seemed it was what Sherlock needed. He quirked his mouth, and lowered his eyes again, but his shoulders were relaxed.

SH SH SH

They were released from the hospital that evening, for there were almost no lasting effects, though they all retained a headache. Baker Street had been aired out in their absence, and the air quality was probably now better than it ever had been. Mrs. Hudson immediately went to the kitchen to make them all a pot of tea, while John and Sherlock went upstairs to collapse in their arm chairs.

John was watching Sherlock still, though he was trying to be sneaky about it. Sherlock could see the surreptitious glances every now and then as they drank their tea. In truth, all Sherlock wanted to do was go to bed. The whole thing had been an unexpected ordeal. He rubbed his face, then ran his hands up into his hair.

John yawned, and stood.

"Well, this has been a day." John commented, and Sherlock grunted, not looking up from where he was staring into the fire, his hands still tangled in his curls. John watched him for a moment longer. His face was calm, blank. "I'm going to head up."

Sherlock gave him a perfunctory good night, and listened to him climb the stairs to his room. The room was silent then.

He sat there for a long while, unmoving, barely breathing. The only sign of internal distress was how his hands, still gripping his hair, shook and the knuckles grew white.

Maybe an hour later, maybe longer, he jerked to his feet, scrambling backwards like something was crawling out of the fireplace to attack him. Sherlock, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, turned and rushed up the stairs with panicked steps.

He stopped at the top of the stair, and leaned on John's door frame, clutching his chest.

_What was that, you stupid coward? There's nothing down there. Here you go running to John, like you're crying to your mummy._ He thought viciously to himself. He told himself to go back to the sitting room, or better yet, go to bed, and forget about this day. Yet a moment later he hadn't moved a muscle. He breathed in deeply, and—

The door jerked open, and Sherlock gasped in alarm, and stepped backwards, nearly going off the edge of the stair well, if it weren't for John's steady arms grabbing his. They both staggered, and then sat heavily as an alternative to falling. John ended up sitting on the top step with his arms still around Sherlock, and _was he shaking?_

"Sherlock?" John blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes. He'd been dozing when he heard Sherlock flying up the stairs. He'd thought there was something attacking or something. It was lucky for Sherlock that he'd left his gun downstairs. He looked at the trembling detective. "Sherlock, what's the matter?" John tightened his hold on him awkwardly. Normally he'd let go, but Sherlock was gripping his arm across his chest like a lifeline. Sherlock gulped a breath then, and really looked at John for the first time since John opened the door. He released John's arm, slid back until he hit the wall, drawing his knees up.

"Sherlock, talk to me." John scootched over, and knelt in front of Sherlock. "What's going on?"

"I can't stop it." Sherlock's hands crept up to his head again. "I can't turn it off, it just keeps repeating, over and over…" He was muttering, not really looking at anything. John inched closer, touched his knee.

"What does Sherlock? " He asked in the type of voice you talk to a wounded animal with.

Sherlock looked at him then.

"You're dead when I get to you, and Mrs. Hudson. I try and try to come fast enough, and I can't…can't—" He put the back of his hand to his mouth, cutting of his choked words. John, kneeling a mere foot from Sherlock, felt his heart twist at his words. Sherlock's guilt ran much deeper than John had thought. That small resolution at the hospital wasn't enough to stave this off.

John clenched his fists awkwardly, not knowing how best to comfort Sherlock. He was clearly in need of something, but John didn't know what to do. Anyone else he'd pull into a hug, but Sherlock had never been one for physical contact. He settled for putting a hand on Sherlock's thin shoulder, and squeezing.

The contact seemed to ground Sherlock, and he took a few harsh breaths, calming himself. He looked at John again, and he saw that mask come down, the one that said '_Sociopath, stay away' _in big red letters. Bull.

John put his other hand on Sherlock's right shoulder, and leaned in, right into his face. He wanted to tell him these words, wanted to pound it into his thick head while the mask was still thin.

"Sherlock, this was. Not. Your. Fault." His words were firm, and full of conviction. Sherlock, looking into those eyes so full of trust in him, couldn't help but believe it, a bit.

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed reading that as much as I did writing it :) I'm issuing a challenge to anyone interested, write two versions of the same story, modern and canon. It's harder than you think! My biggest thing was not calling Holmes, Sherlock and visa versa.

Anyway, thanks for reading! Tell me what you thought!

Ari


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